Being of True Love, Reality, and Other Fairy Tales
by Agent of the Apothecary
Summary: -AU- “Yes,” he said, remembering with sudden, horrid recollection their last encounter. “Lizzie Bennet. It’s, er . . . good. To see you.” In which Will dithers, Lizzie dithers even more, the word ‘good’ is used far too often, and Things Are Cleared Up.


**Story:** Being of True Love and Reality and Other Fairy Tales

**Summary:** -AU- ("Yes," he said, remembering with sudden, horrid recollection their last face-to-face encounter. "Lizzie Bennet. It's, er . . . good. To see you.") In which Will dithers, Lizzie dithers even more, the word 'good' is used far too often, and Things Are Cleared Up.

**Notes:** Unlike most P&P AUs, this one does actually require you to have read the books. It's like a one-shot . . . only not, obviously. And no worries, there are zero mentions of business arrangements/pop stars/global conglomerates/baristas, those vocations which so plague the P&P AU World.

WARNING: Here there be unapologetic fluff. Sappy fluff. Run for your lives!

**Disclaimer:** Er. If I owned Jane Austen's estate, I would probably have to be shot for my offenses.

* * *

The party was – unfortunately – an unmitigated success. Georgie, home for the holidays with a few Peabody friends, all of whom were draped in black and as alarmingly slim as his sister, was Master of Music, and doing a very good job at it. Whatever Caroline had convinced the caterer to do was marvelous (or so everyone had told him; it wasn't as if he'd had the time or the wherewithal to stomach any of it himself), and Charles was in fine form.

Oh yes, _Charles_ was in fucking fine form.

For someone who professed to have had his heart recently broken, he appeared to be doing just _fine_ while talking to Veronica. (Will took a moment to acknowledge that maybe he was a bit too bitter to be doing much examining of his friend, and if there was a bit of tightness around Charles' eyes, if the laugh was a bit off, Will was too busy wallowing in self-pity to much care.)

Over in the corner, Georgie was chattering excitedly with her friends, probably the most he'd ever seen her talk with someone other than himself or Mrs. Reynolds. He ached to admit that yes, Peabody had been a better choice than private tutoring, and that maybe it was a good thing that the old housekeeper had won that particular argument.

The voices were so loud, the music a deceptive underlay, that if he hadn't been standing directly next to the door (half-hiding under the profusion of tinsel and greenery, true, but he hadn't been called on it yet) he probably wouldn't have heard the light ring of the doorbell.

Charles intercepted him as he made to answer the door.

"Will, my man," he said, suddenly appearing from the left to fling his arm about his best friend's shoulders. "Can you not reap the benefit of . . ." Here he trailed off, his eyebrows furrowed. "Wassit, glorious success?"

"I suppose," said Will, "I'd be feeling better if you weren't invading my personal space." He noticed with the relief of a good host that Mrs. Reynolds had appeared to get the door, and allowed Charles to steer him from the main entryway.

"You're such a girl," said Charles, not unkindly.

Will raised an eyebrow. "Charles, I think were anyone in this room to rival your sister for innate femininity, it would be you. The byproduct of growing up with two sisters and no male influence." They returned to the main room and settled near the wall with the Monet original, where Will had a clear view of Georgie and Charles quick access to the open bar.

"I had you," pointed out Charles, who was still clutching the slightly-taller Will under his arm. "The very pinnacle of manly manliness."

"Thank you," said Will drily. He noticed that his sister's friends had peeled away from the stereo table to visit the buffet, and slipped out from Charles' grasp. "Go talk to Georgie."

"Fine," said Charles with mock long-suffering. He took a final sip of his beer, playfully squared his shoulders, and went off to talk to the meek blonde, who was looking between two albums with the seriousness of a grand master in the midst of a difficult match.

Grinning a little, Will took a half-turn to return Charles' empty glass to the table there for the purpose, and ran head-on into the last person he'd ever expected to see at his New Year's Party.

Lizzie Bennet, hair caught up in an approximation of a bun, froze. Were this a badly-written romance novel, there would have been allusions to deer and car parts. "Oh," she said, looking panicked. "Will – Will Darcy."

"Yes," he said, remembering with sudden, horrid recollection their last face-to-face encounter. "Lizzie Bennet. It's, er . . . good. To see you."

And it was. It was marvelously, tremendously wonderful to see her. The memories he'd replayed in his mind over the past few months had been of her eyes, usually large and dark, narrowing with anger; the splotches of red on her cheeks and forehead; the dampness of her hair from the rain; her words, very neatly severing his heart from the rest of his body.

She blushed, looking down at her feet, and he knew the polite thing to do would be to nod distractedly and continue on his way. He couldn't, though, couldn't even take his eyes off of her face, which was contorting awkwardly. "You too," she said in a half-whisper.

"Yes, good to see you," repeated Will, feeling like an idiot but not much caring. She was wearing that scoop-necked sweater-thing she'd been wearing back in September, with the blue and the ribbing across the hem. She looked beautiful, even if her hair was coming apart and she was pale enough she glowed a bit under the dragonfly lights (Georgie's addition, supposedly contributing to the fey-like atmosphere). "How – how are your sisters?"

She was startled enough by this to look up from her shoes. Their eyes met, and even as she spoke he had the vivid impression of her eyes, framed by damp lashes, under the gazebo on his aunt's lawn with the rain coming through the slats. "They're fine," she said faintly, blinking twice and then continuing in a stronger voice, "some more so than others."

He winced, the moment snapped in two, and dragged his eyes to the concave curve where her neck met her collarbone. Even with _If you'd been more of a gentleman and less of a total ass_ bouncing around his scull and rattling his eyes, he couldn't entirely look away from her. "I mean," she corrected quickly, "they're good. Mom and Dad are doing good. Really, really good. I mean, for, you know, Mom and Dad."

"Ah," he said politely. She shrugged minutely, a little helplessly, and the scoop-necked sweater-thing with the blue and the ribbing bunched at her shoulder and then smoothed. He wondered abstractly what she would do if he settled his hand there, in the curve. He had a theory that his hand would fit perfectly.

"What about you?" she asked a little desperately. "How has life been – for the past few months?" Hearing her stumble over the words, he chanced a look at her face and never got past her lips.

Calling himself a total prat, he replied, hopefully clearly, "Fine. Business is good."

She nervously licked her lower lip, then suddenly halted and bit it instead. When she let it go to speak, the flesh slid and molded into its intended shape slowly. He had half-raised Charles' glass before remembering it was empty. "Everything seems to be good, doesn't it?" she asked, a bit of her familiar arch tone seeping into the words.

"Oh, perfectly good," he agreed – wishing for a drink and that the awful silence between them would go away and take with it all the nasty things they'd said to each other and about each other and the things he'd done to her sister Jane and she'd done to his heart – and added a little desperately, "but there is one thing that isn't quite so good."

"Oh?" she asked, and he finally stopped being an ass and managed to make eye contact. Now it was she looking away, at his shirt where he'd undone the first button. With his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, he realized this was probably the most casual she'd ever seen him.

He felt discomforted by this, and almost reached to straighten his tie before forcing himself to relax.

"This party," he admitted, hoping to dear god that this came across as light and flirting, not control-freak-ish or whatever else she'd accused him of being (_uptight, unable to realize that _true _fucking_ love _was happening under his nose,_ his memory helpfully recalled, and he testily told it to shut the hell up) that afternoon. "No one's dancing."

She looked shocked, jerked her eyes to his, and maybe she had the intention of looking away just as quickly, but she maybe she was caught under the same spell he was, that spell of proximity and the rain and now Georgie (surely this wasn't on purpose) had put on something softly romantic and fluting. "Oh," she said. "_Oh_." The corner of her lips curled in, a dimple appeared in her cheek. "Oh, well we can't have Will Darcy's party ruined by lack of perfection."

"That," he agreed with a modicum of solemnity, "would never do."

Neither of them had blinked for a very long amount of time, but he only vaguely registered the discomfort.

"Lizzie Bennet," he said, frozen in the spot under Georgie's twinkling dragonfly lights, "would you like to dance with me?"

She smiled so suddenly it was staggering, all of the light reflecting off of her, and her eyes crinkled and her dimples deepened and she threw back her head (which proved to be too much for her hair pins, which bent and snapped and suddenly she had bright, wild hair creating a haze around her face) and laughed even as she offered him her hand.

For a moment he hesitated in his mind, wondering if he deserved this creature, and then Reality in the form of Charles stepped in, because Georgie was changing the song again, the familiar one from the summer party at Netherfield Lake, with the piano (Will made a mental note to thank him and then throttle him, preferably after he cleared up the Jane-Bennet-is-actually-in-love-with-you mess Will had made of things back over the summer) that echoed and hummed and chimed.

"Will Darcy," she said as he dropped Charles' glass back onto the side table and let one hand breathe over the curve of her neck-collarbone-shoulder, the other pressing to the small of her back and drawing her closer, "I would love to dance with you."

* * *

_Disclaimer: Should you be currently suffering from toothaches, cavities, and/or neural implosions, please understand that I am not legally responsible. At any rate, thoughts?  
_


End file.
